The World Forgot (10 page)

“I'm sorry, Elvie,” Ducky tells me. He sounds genuinely gutted. “I want to find Olivia too. I do. But this is the entire
world
we're talking about. These Devastator guys could literally
destroy the planet
if we don't act fast. When you weigh things that way . . . she's just one baby.”

We are all silent, letting Ducky's words sink in.

“If we go back to Earth,” Ducky says softly, placating, “we can tell people what we know. People who can do something. We'll get her back, Elvie. I promise.”

She's just one baby.

“Don't you talk to me,” I tell Ducky. My chest is frozen. “Not ever again.”

She's just one baby.

Ducky reaches out an arm to try to make it up to me—leaving my baby in this place to die or worse—with a hug, I guess. But it's not happening. I give him a stiff arm, sending him stumbling back for Marnie to catch.

“C'mon, then,” Marnie says. Her tone is conciliatory. “We'll go ahead and get the ship fired up. Give ye a few ticks to yerself.”

“You do that.”

Marnie heads off to the elevators, Ducky in tow. He turns and gives me a pitiful look, but I am in no way willing to feel sorry for that backstabbing creep right now. I hope his new squeeze is there for him the next time his infant is kidnapped by aliens, because if he expects me to lift a finger, he can just forget it. They get into the first open elevator and turn to face us.

“Archer?” Marnie asks. It's only then that I realize that Cole is standing right next to me.

“We'll catch up,” Cole says. At this very moment I really wish that he'd put a strong, reassuring hand on my shoulder, like he used to. But he doesn't. He just stands dutifully beside me, like one of Byron's Newfoundlands. The elevator doors swish shut, leaving us alone with about four hundred other lost souls milling in and out of the bar.

“You okay?” Cole asks. The only way I know to answer him involves a lot of cursing or crying, so I say nothing. He turns to face me directly.

“Elvie, you say the word,” he says. “You tell me what to do, and I'll do it. You just tell me the plan.”

“What plan?” I say, the tears edging dangerously toward the corners of my eyes. “What are the two of us supposed to do against Marsden's whole gang? It's not like we can waltz in the front door.”

“Actually,” comes a voice from behind us, “it might be you could do exactly that.”

I whip around to see Dodge leaning against a pillar several yards away from us, picking at something resembling slimy flat noodles from a flat square tin.

“Where did you—” I start to ask.

“I took off,” he interrupts, walking up to us, “but I never left. Sometimes folks tell you a lot more when you're not there.” He picks up one of the “noodles” from the tin and slides it down his throat like it's some sort of delicacy. He offers the tin to me, but I shake my head politely, because despite my tears, my nose still works. Dodge shrugs and closes the tin, then slips it into his jacket pocket.

“You must be a real ace mum,” he says.

“Not yet,” I say. “But I'll never get there without practice.”

“Wish I'd had a mum like you. Mine sold me to the Conglomerate when I was ten, to pay off her debts. She's living somewhere planet-side now, rot take her.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. I'm not sure where this is going. “You said we could get in the front door? What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said,” Dodge answers. “These folks you're after, they're below the refinery, yeah? So the only way in is
through
the refinery. The security there is pretty tight—they don't want just anyone sneaking in and scampering off with any of their precious ozone bricks—but if you know the right scamp . . .”

“And you're that scamp,” I finish. “We don't have any credits, Dodge.”

Dodge waves me off like he's insulted. “Not everything's about money, luff.” I give him a look. “Okay,” he says, and smirks. “Most things are. Look, if I help you get your wee one back, all I ask is that you comp me a ride planet-side on your ship. If you're still feeling generous then, we can discuss further compensation later.”

“Why would you help us like that?” Cole asks, suspicious.

“You know the going rate of a flight down?” Dodge asks. “I'm not talking a joy ride with any of these space jockeys, who are just as likely to blow up as get you anywhere. I mean an honest-to-goodness ride back to civilization? I couldn't afford it on ten years' scamming.”

“You could have asked Marnie for a ride anytime you wanted,” I say.

“Legs usually travels with that humorless bunch of sad sacks she calls her family. She's never had a proper ship. Like you.”

“How did you—”

“Luff, this will go a lot faster if you just accept that I know a lot more than you think I should, without asking the why,” Dodge says. “I've broken into the plant before. Ozone—even gas—fetches a fair price around here. I can get you in and out before your mates have even finished prepping the ship for takeoff. Whaddya say?”

Cole gives me a worried look, but when he sees my face, he must realize there's no use in arguing.

Hold on, Olivia,
I think, the voice in my head growing louder by the second.
Just hold on.

Chapter Seven

In Which a Previously Inconsequential Someone Makes an Explosive Reappearance

“Here. Put these on,” Dodge says, handing us two dirty pairs of coveralls. Not at all like the one I wore during my failed attempt to escape the
Echidna
in the trash compactor, or the ones the Almiri gave us when they first shuttled us onto the space elevator to the South Pole. No, these are decidedly . . . earthier. There's so much grease and assorted grime caked to the coarsely woven material that it feels crunchy in my hands as I unfurl it.

“Why?” I ask. Presently I am very unappreciative of my Enosi adaptive abilities. I would love to not be able to smell this jumper.

“Because you're a scrubber, remember?” Dodge replies. “We're being all sneaky-like.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right.” I really wish people would leave the being-a-sarcastic-pain-in-the-ass thing to me.

“You too, pretty boy,” Dodge tells Cole, who seems to be having similar difficulty in building the courage to slip the filthy cover over his own clothes. “You're going to stand out too much as it is, smooth little peach that you are.”

“I am not a . . . peach,” Cole says defiantly. But when he slips into the coveralls and zips the front up, he looks like a flat-pic superhero after a grueling but sexy battle in the mud, whereas I can only assume I look like a moldy prune someone dropped in a soggy trash can.

“Where's your disguise?” I ask Dodge.

“Disguise? Yours truly?” Dodge says, sounding sincerely and profoundly hurt. “My notoriety is a blessing here, my lufflies, unlike yours, should you be caught trespassing. Don't you fret. With ol' Dodge as your guide, we'll have you where you're headed in no time.”

Once we're in our crunchy coveralls, we exit the terminal booth. The crowds are thinner down here than they were up on the promenade or residential levels, which suddenly makes me feel very naked in spite of the rumpled disguise I'm wearing.

“So remember,” Dodge says as we walk, “you're new scrubbers fresh off the latest transport, came here thanks to a generous donation on my part toward the purchase of two tickets for said transport, and we're going to set up your debit wage, with a thirty-five percent cut going to yours truly.”

“Thirty-five percent?” I say, incredulous.

“It's not for real, luff. Don't get caught in a spot over it. It's got to look legit for us to get inside.”

“Somehow even fictional indentured servitude gives me pause,” I say.

“That's nothing,” Dodge says. “Wait till you see the con­venience and processing fees. A weekly wage of seven hundred dollars usually leaves a new scrubber with a debit card of under three hundred.”

“How can they get away with that?” I ask, honestly indignant. “There are labor laws for that sort of thing.”

“Laws is for zoners, luff.”

“But why doesn't anyone do anything about it?”

“And here I thought rich girls didn't catch the activist bug until uni,” Dodge tells me. “Look, it's a bloody awful system, luff. But it didn't come from nowhere. That's why I'm helping you. We uncover this big bad you think you're after, why, that can't help but shine a light on some of the other unmentionable things going on here. Just so long as you don't forget about all this back planet-side.”

“I won't,” I say. “I promise.”

“Right, then,” Dodge says. “A few more blocks to the facility gates.”

The front of the refinery complex looks like the terminal of a decidedly fourth-rate airport. There are several rows of plastic chairs back-to-back, forming narrowing channels toward a barrier, a twelve-meter-high silver wall with six gates—three checkpoints on the right marked by a blue light above each doorway, while the three to the left are marked by a red light. Hanging from the ceiling are three spherical surround-view cameras taking in enough visual data to create a fully manipulable, examinable 3-D image of the grand foyer.

“That's some fancy security,” I say, nodding upward.

Dodge smiles but doesn't look up. “New toys the Governor had installed not too long back,” he informs us. “Among others. Not exactly standard issue for this kind of plant.”

“The kind of toy that'd come in handy if you wanted to keep extra close tabs on who was coming in and out,” I say.

“You think it's Marsden?” Cole asks, looking straight up.

“Maybe,” I say, resisting the urge to tell Cole not to point his face directly at the camera.

The other thing I notice as we approach the entry is that there is suddenly a large cluster of people hovering near one of the gates. They aren't wearing work coveralls, and they don't look like they are here in any kind of professional capacity. They look like the throng flooding the promenade level.

“What's with the crowd?” I ask.

“Payday,” Dodge says.

His meaning is made clear as we reach the gate. The crowd flocks toward us, clutching at our sleeves as they plead in the assorted dialects of the upper levels.

Beggars.

As we approach, a tone sounds through the room. For a split second I freeze, fearing that we've been found out (although, technically, we haven't done anything illegal yet). That's when I see the men and women start to exit the complex through the red-light marked doorways. The beggars immediately tear away from us and fly at the workers just ending their shift—­presumably with a weekly debit payment in their pocket. Many of the beggars extend small digital card readers toward the scrubbers, hoping for a charitable swipe of a few credits, while some of the less fortunate futilely hold their bare hands out, palms up, on the off chance that someone might be carrying an actual piece of physical currency. Having just been told how measly their working wage is, I'm surprised to see that more than half of the two or three dozen scrubbers pause on their way home to transfer a few dollars here and there to those unable to get work. The only people who don't break their stride are a group of men wearing completely different uniforms—dark, trim jumpsuits. Pilot attire.

“Come on,” Dodge says, eyeing the scene with a bitter expression. “Stick close once we're inside, and follow my lead.”

Cole and I follow Dodge closely. He passes through the far right blue-lit doorway without incident, but the door lets out two soft dings as Cole and I walk through.

“Don't fret,” Dodge tells us. “It's just 'cause you don't have a pass card.” On the other side of the silver wall, there is another lobby, just as drab as the outer foyer. Along the right wall is a small glass office space, from which two men exit at the sound of the pings. Dodge opens his arms in a grandiose gesture as they approach, a smile twice as wide as his face.

“Bricks, Potter, how are ya, mates?” Dodge greets them.

“What's ya there, Dodge?” the one called Bricks says, gesturing at us.

“Fresh offerings from the below,” Dodge says.

Bricks looks us over, unimpressed. “Zoners, eh?” He inhales what sounds like an inordinately large block of phlegm from his left nostril.

“Not anymore, they ain't,” Dodge tells him. “Got the scrubber bug.”

“They're really dreggin' the mists with these lot nowadays, eh?” Bricks says, smirking.

“That's the second time someone's said that about me,” I whisper to Cole. “I'm starting to think it's not a compliment.”

“The less they think of us the better, right?” Cole says with a shrug.

“All right,” Potter says to Dodge. “So what's yer cut, then?”

Dodge turns to us and barks, “You's wait while we discuss business.” And with that he disappears into the glass office with Bricks and Potter, an arm around each man's grime-encrusted shoulder.

“So, um,” Cole says, looking around to see if there's anywhere to sit, which there isn't. “Once we're inside . . . then what, Elvs?”

I merely shrug. “I'm assuming Dodge will know where to go.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “To find this supersecret place where the supersecret Jin'Kai who might not actually be working with Dr. Marsden are doing supersecret things?” he asks.

“Um, yep,” I say lamely. But I guess I get defensive when I see the look Cole offers me then. “No one said it would be easy,” I say.

“No offense, Elvs,” Cole says, “but I'm used to a little more planning from you on stuff like this.”

“You know what, Cole, if you didn't like the plan, then why'd you even bother to come with me?”

I'm not actually angry at Cole, of course. The dude could not be more right. I do usually plan these things better. If my dad isn't already disappointed in me for stealing Byron's ship and going rogue, he'll most assuredly be chagrinned by this half-baked baby-rescue mission.

To my surprise Cole gets right in my face, and he looks fierce. “Why'd I come with you?” he snaps. “She's my daughter too, Elvie.”

I think the fact that I can feel my face go white as I stumble back a few paces is enough to inform Cole that he's got me dead to rights.

“I'm . . . sorry,” I say slowly. God, it seems like I've had to say that a lot lately. But Cole is right, and I guess I'd sort of let that detail slip out of my brain for a while. No matter what he and I are to each other, he is Olivia's father. Always will be.

Cole nods slightly. “S'okay,” he mumbles, staring at Dodge and those guys in the glass booth.

As far as I can tell, Dodge is still BS-ing. I can't hear anything they're saying, but Bricks in particular looks confused, whereas Potter looks more concerned as he peppers Dodge with silent questions. I wish I were a better lip-reader.

After a few minutes Potter nods, seemingly in agreement. Bricks looks through the glass at us again and smiles, revealing several gaps in his crooked set of teeth.

“What's happening?” Cole asks, staring back at the glass booth trio. Dodge clasps Potter's hand in a firm shake. “Is that . . . good?”

I honestly don't know how to answer. Dodge walks to the door before spinning around and doing an elaborate curtsy for the two men. They each give him an equally exaggerated gesture with their hands, then turn to look at us with shit-eating grins.

“I don't like it,” I say, feeling my body tense. “Something's not right.”

Dodge is through the door with a smirk on his face. As he approaches, he gestures toward the long snaking corridor leading into the facility. “This way, lass and lad,” he says without breaking stride. “Let ol' Dodge guide you through the gates of Dis.”

“What was that all about?” I ask, running to catch up to him as he passes through the first archway. “What was with all that smiling?”

“Elvie, my dear,” he says, “I'm sorry to inform you that Bricks and Potter'll each be getting a five percent kickback on your wages for letting you on the rolls.”

“After your cut, we'll hardly have enough to live off,” I say. Then I break into a grin. “Nicely played.”

“You bribed them with fake money?” Cole asks.

“Don't feel too bad for 'em, Cole old boy,” Dodge says. “I'm sure they'll get by on the backs of some other poor saps.”

The winding corridor leads us farther into the heart of the factory. The first thing that hits me right away is the smell. It smells like a pool. The chlorine stench is so strong that my vision actually goes a little blurry. The second thing is the cold. While it doesn't bother me nearly as much as the smell, it's noticeably frigid.

“Why is it so chilly in here?” I ask as we pass underneath a large robotic crane arm shifting pallets of equipment from the ground level to the open upper deck.

“Keeping the temp down reduces the chance that the ozone will combust,” Dodge says. “This is nuffin'. Wait till we get into the processing chambers. That'll chip the nips right off ya.”

“Charming,” I reply. I feel a hand on my back. It's Cole, guiding me forward slightly faster than I'd like. I turn to give him the old what-do-you-think-you're-doing? routine, but then I see that the crane we just passed under has jammed and is whirring loudly under the strain of a pallet that hasn't quite reached its destination. A team of workers on the top level rush to the edge and reach out precariously with grappling rods to pull the cargo up. “It's a wonder this whole place hasn't blown up already.”

“Tech is old, run-down, but it works. Mostly. Problem is injuries. Even with his new cash flow, the Governor ain't dropped a credit toward upping safety standards for the floor crew. Only place he's put in a little dough is the compressor system what presses the bricks 'emselves. Guess he don't want 'em going boom right under his own arse.”

We pass into a cavernous room, twice as big as the machinery floor we just left, and sure enough, the temp is probably half what it was before. My breath can see its own breath in here.

“Your brights are on, luff,” Dodge says with a smirk. At first I don't know what he means. Cole, looking embarrassed, gestures at the half-zipped top of my overalls.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I growl, zipping the overalls up to my neck. Dodge clucks his tongue in what I think is disappointment.

“Not trying to be vulgar. I am a great admirer of the female form.” He punches Cole in the arm jovially, but Cole just stares back at him.

“So, what goes on in here?” I ask, trying to change the subject, lest Cole start to get chivalrous on my behalf at the worst possible moment.

“Here's where the ozone gas is pressed into brick form.” Dodge points at the long chain of machines whirring along the left side of the room. “The gas feeds in through the venting system there, where's it's purified. Then the temp goes down to -112 degrees Celsius through them pipes, and the gas goes gooey.” He gestures to the series of massive tubing that stretches for dozens of meters toward a tall, boxy machine. The contraption stands close to thirty meters high and runs almost the complete length of the room. “The goo goes in there, and the temp drops even further, gets fashioned into the bricks. Each brick's about half a cubic meter, weighing about one metric ton, and if one o' them popped, you'd feel it on the far side of the station, that's how much wallop they pack. They drop through that shaft you see at the end there, straight down, and get delivered to the factory hangar, where they're loaded into the flyers so they can be deployed into the atmo, and you zoners can keep going to the beach without having to use SPF 200 sunscreen.”